The Price of Butcher's Meat (9 page)

the cellar, I think we really need to do an in-depth costing. I need quota-tions, not estimates. If I have time I’ll drop in later to take a closer
look.”

The landlord bowed his head deferentially, or mebbe he were worried in case his expression showed this weren’t the best news he’d had
today!

“Of course, Lady Denham,” he said.

Now she glanced our way and said, “Toodle-pip, Franny. Don’t forget you’re lunching with me this week.”

“Engraved on my heart, Lady D,” said Roote.

Her gaze shifted to me and she ducked her head and gave a little
snort like she were wondering whether to charge but headed for the door
instead.

I muttered, “Will that be lobster at Moby’s?”

“Alas, no. Belly pork at Sandytown Hall, I fear,” said Roote with a
little shudder.

Afore I could ask what he meant, the door opened as the women
approached it and a Yankee voice gushed, “Daphne, Clara, how nice.

How are you, dear ladies?”

Toilet-tooth Festerwhanger.

Well, at least they really had sent Prince bloody Charming, not some
snotty-nosed orderly to round me up. Always supposing that’s why he’d
come. I could see Roote thought it was. He gave me one of them little
looks. Quizzical, I think they call ’em. Like Pascoe sometimes. Mebbe
him and Roote had more in common than I realized.

Stepping into the bar, Festerwhanger flashed the young lass a spotlight smile, then got folded into buffalo woman’s arms. It were like
watching one of them Cumberland wrestlers tekking hold, except they
don’t clamp their gobs onto their opponent’s face and give his tonsils a
tongue massage. I saw now what Roote’s little insinuation were all
about.

Eventually he broke loose, staggering a bit, like a diver who’d come
up too quick. But to give him his due, he made a quick recovery, and
soon him and Lady D were chatting away—him all Yankee charm and
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her sort of girlishly flirtatious, like an elephant dancing in that old Dis-ney cartoon. I almost felt sorry for old Fester. Got the feeling she could
chew him up and spit him out all over his consulting room couch. Finally she gave him a farewell kiss that made the first one seem like a rehearsal and set off again but stopped dead in her tracks as the door
opened to admit another man.

Different this time, but. No gush and hugs. In fact, if I can read a
face, there’s neither of them would have lost sleep if t’other had dropped
dead on the spot!

The new guy had halted right in the doorway so she couldn’t get by.

“If you don’t mind,” she said, haughty as a duchess talking to a game-keeper she don’t fancy shagging.

He didn’t move. He looked about ninety and I’ve seen healthier-looking faces at an exhumation. His eyes were deep sunk, his few bits of
hair clung to his pate like mold on an old plum, and he had a beard like
a wildlife sanctuary. Despite the heat, he were wearing a mucky old
donkey jacket, an old-fashioned striped shirt without a collar, and the
kind of baggy pants farmworkers used to tie up with string, only no
self-respecting rat would have cared to run up these.

Suddenly I didn’t feel so badly dressed.

Still he didn’t move or speak. Then the landlord said warningly,

“Hen.”

Now he smiled. Bare gums mainly, and the few teeth you could see
through the foliage were greeny yallery shading to black at the roots. I
half-expected Festerwhanger to faint.

Then he stepped to one side and did a piss-taking bow and said, “So
sorry, Your Ladyship. Didn’t see you there. So sorry. Would hate to get in
Your Ladyship’s way.”

“You won’t,” she said. And went sweeping past him, young Clara in
pursuit, looking a bit embarrassed.

The old boy kicked the door shut behind them. The landlord said,

“Watch it, Hen. It’s me as is responsible for fixtures and fittings. Your
usual, Dr. Feldenhammer?”

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 5 7

The Yank, who’d been watching the incident with interest, nodded.

His usual was a short. Dark amber, enough ice to sink the
Titanic
. Jack
Daniel’s mebbe. At least it weren’t purple. Festerwhanger sipped it, then
turned and leaned against the bar. His face split into that toothy grin as
he acted like he’d just noticed us.

“Well hello there, Franny,” he called. “And Mr. Dalziel too. Glad to
see you’re getting around, sir. You’re looking well.”

Roote gave my thigh a told-you- so jab under the table. I’d have given
him a let’s-wait-and- see kick back, only with him not having any feeling
in his legs, it didn’t seem worth the effort.

“Aye, I’m not so bad,” I lied. Truth was, I felt distinctly woozy. The
ancient geezer had got himself a pint without opening his mouth or
handing over money, so far as I could see. Another time I’d have been
interested to find out what had just gone off here, but at the moment, I
didn’t give a toss.

“Good. And you, Franny, how are you? Coming to Tom’s meeting on
Friday, I hope?”

“Of course. Exciting times, Lester. Won’t you join us?”

Franny and Lester. Like an old music hall act. Roote had really got
his useless legs under the table round here. Sounded like his social cal-endar were pretty full too.

“Thanks but I can’t stay,” said the Yank. “Just came out to drop an
express package in the post office. My niece’s birthday back home. Almost forgot, which would have been a capital offense. Felt I’d earned a
quick one, but I need to be back up at the clinic pretty much right
away.”

I weren’t so ill I didn’t notice there were too much bloody detail.

Think a shrink would know summat like that. Plus, most country post
offi ces I’d come across shut up at midday on a Saturday.

The door opened again. This were getting like a French farce. New
arrival were a well-set-up young fellow, one of them craggy faces that
has five o’clock shadow at half past one. Looked like he reckoned the
world owed him a living and the women in it owed him a shagging.

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R E G I N A L D H I L L

He said, “Alan, any sign of my aunt?”

“Been and gone. Says she’ll see you in Moby’s.”

“Oh dear. Bit pissed off, is she? That will mean the lobster thermi-dor, I fear. But then, she was never going to choose the monkfish pâté,
was she?”

He made a wry sort of face to show he was joking, only he wasn’t.

Now he let himself take in the others in the bar. Worzel Gummidge
he ignored, me and Roote he shot a cocky grin at and said, “Ah, Franny,
nursy taking you for a stroll?” then he did a double take, as if he’d just
noticed Fester, and cried, “Is that you, Dr. Feldenhammer? Didn’t recognize you in a sitting position, sir. I hope I find you well. Mustn’t keep
auntie waiting.”

Then he left, whistling raucously.

I saw Festerwhanger flush the color of old port. Either he were seriously narked or he was going to have a seizure.

He downed the rest of his drink like he needed it, ice cubes clanging
against his snowy teeth hard enough to dislodge a polar bear, slid off his
stool, gave the landlord a curt nod, and marched through the door.

I said to Roote, “Got that wrong, didn’t you, lad?”

He said, “I just think the game changed, but never fear, he’ll remember. That tune Teddy Denham was whistling, I’m trying to recall what it
is. I’ve got it on the tip of my tongue.”

Meaning he hadn’t the faintest idea but would be glad to know
what caused the Yank doctor to lose his cool. Didn’t miss much, our
Franny.

“Sorry, no idea,” I said. Which was a lie. I’d recognized the notes of
a little ditty I’ve heard belted out at the back of rugby coaches more
times than I care to remember.

Don’t expect Roote spent much time in rugby coaches, and I didn’t
see any reason why I should enlighten him.

Roote were giving me one of his looks that said he knew I were holding out on him. Then his expression turned to I-told-you- so! as the door
opened again and Fester stuck his head back in.

T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 5 9

“It just occurred to me, Mr. Dalziel—would you like a lift back up to
the home? Or do you have transport arranged?”

I suppose I could’ve told him I preferred to walk. Or that Roote
were giving me a lift. But sod that. Only a fool turns down what he
wants out of pride, and what I really wanted now were to crash out in
my pit.

“Nay,” I said. “That ’ud be grand.”

I looked at my beer glass. It were half full. I realized I didn’t want it.

Only a fool sups what he don’t want out of pride.

But I could feel Roote watching me, and this time pride won.

I drained the glass, set it down, and hauled myself out of my chair.

“Thanks, mate,” I said to the landlord. “Good pint that.”

“Thank you, sir. Hope we see you again soon,” he said.

“Never fret, I’ll be back.”

Roote caught my arm and said in a low voice, “Mr. Dalziel, just one
thing. About Mr. Pascoe, I’ll leave it up to you.”

Whether I told him or not, he meant.

I gave him a nod and left.

I wouldn’t trust Roote as far as I could throw him, which, the way I
were feeling just then, was about half a yard. But credit where due, I
couldn’t fault him over how he’d dealt with Pete.

Which don’t stop me wondering, now they’ve finally got me tucked
up in bed and talking to myself under the sheet, if one of the reasons
Franny Roote took off abroad with no forwarding address was ’cos he
didn’t want Pete Pascoe feeling responsible for him, then why when he
came back to England did he opt to settle here in Mid-Yorkshire? Okay
it’s right on the fringes of our patch, but it’s still our patch!

Can’t get that tune buffalo woman’s nephew were whistling out of
my mind. How did the words go? Let’s see . . . summat about an Indian
maid . . . aye, that’s it!

There once was an Indian maid,

and she was sore afraid

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R E G I N A L D H I L L

that some buckaroo would stick it up her fl ue as she lay in the shade.

And so on. Gets dirtier. Not the kind of thing I’d expect Fester to
choose for his
Desert Island Discs
. And why should it bother him so
much?

Questions, questions, lots and lots of sodding questions hopping
madly round my mind to that jaunty little tune. But it’s always the same
one leading the dance.

What the fuck is Roote really up to here in Sandytown?

Never fear, one way or another, I’ll find out afore I go!

But all I want to do now is sleep.

So it’s good night from you, Mildred, and it’s good night from

7

FROM:

[email protected]

TO:

[email protected]

SUBJECT: Min of Information!

Hi Cass!

Thanks for pic. He is truly gorgeous! I want one of my own. Does he have a brother? Nice smile. Whats he got to smile about—I wonder?!!

Back to dull old Sandytown! After lunch yesterday Tom excused himself—

to catch up on all the stuff that had piled up in his absence—& Min—whos clearly decided to make me her own!—asked me if Id like to go swimming with her. I thought she was being kind—& meant the sea—& said yes

please—but it turned out she meant the swimming pool at this 5 star hotel Tom told us about—the Brereton Manor. Seems the Parkers have member-ship of the Health & Leisure Club—natch—but the kids arent allowed in without a responsible adult—so Min the minx had elected me! Mary tried to rescue me—but I said—no problem—& off we went.

Minnie led me over the

road—& through a

gate—then across a golf

course that looked to be in the final stages of construction.

—Should have been finished for Easter—Min told me proprietorially.

Serious money being spent here—I thought—confi rmed when we reached Brereton Manor. Must have been a grand old house—now much modified

& extended—all the

eco-friendly—carbon

unfriendly—stuff theyve got at

Kyoto—but tastefully blended in—the kind of detail that costs a fortune.

Presumably the idea is youve been invited to a 1920s weekend house

party—rather than asked to cough up a small fortune for b & b! Not many people around. Still bedding in. Official opening is not for a fortnight—Bank 6 2

R E G I N A L D H I L L

Holiday weekend—when Tom launches the Festival of Health—which I shant be around to enjoy—thank heaven!

This info again supplied by Min!

She sailed in thru the front door like a grand duchess—& the receptionist greeted her with a big Hi Minnie! & gave me a smile too.

Everyone else we met en route to pool seemed to know Minnie. Swish pool—long way from Olympic—but big enough if you like that sort of thing. I did 10 or so lengths—very boring—specially as I had to stop from time to time to admire Minnies breaststroke—or backstroke—or diving. At 9 you need a lot of admiration! After—we sat in some very comfortable chairs in the café area—& had a Coke—talked. Or rather—I listened! Didnt mind. I was getting interested in what made Sandytown tick—you know me—never happy till Ive got the inside of things outside!—& nothing that goes on round here seems to escape Mins sharp little eyes & ears! By the time shed done—I was thinking of her as my personal Min of Information!